


Let Me Help

by Rosedrop



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, basically these two's relationship broken down into three words, but he is trying, no beta because it's midnight and im tired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:56:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23904235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosedrop/pseuds/Rosedrop
Summary: Sometimes the phrase "Let me help" can say far more then even something like "I love you", and for Geralt and Jaskier this is especially true.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 7
Kudos: 190





	Let Me Help

**Author's Note:**

> Did I really write an entire fic entirely based around a quote from Star Trek? Why yes, yes I did, and I'm actually pretty damn proud of it.

“Let me help.”

Looking back on it, it’s kind of incredible, and slightly infuriating, how easily those three words just slipped out of Jaskier’s mouth, even for the smallest of things.

Geralt comes back from a fight with a colony of Drowners, the wounds on his skin burning from sea salt and his hair matted with dirt and guts? “Let me help,” Jaskier says, as he eases him over to where a bath’s been drawn in their room, moving to unburden Geralt’s from his armor with far steadier fingers before helping him submerge into the lavender-scented heat. It’s nice, and Geralt allows himself to sink into it just a bit deeper.

Or maybe it’s one of the many nights where they can’t afford such a luxury as a roof, and Geralt’s washed away the blood and muck in a nearby, but his hair is still little more than a nest of tangles. “Let me help,” flows from Jaskier’s lips once again as he stands up from his spot by their campfire, moving over to the log Geralt’s slumped himself on to with a comb in one hand and a bottle of oil in the other, to help smooth away the pain of stubborn knots as deft fingers go to work. 

“Let me help!” This time the words are brought out with far more force, though the undercurrent of fear is undeniable even as Geralt’s head swarms. He’s got a painful concoction of Swallow and Black Blood flowing through his veins, and thanks to the ghoul bite on his right leg standing won’t be an option for much longer. But yet, there’s still that instinct, that fear, to turn his head away, to get as far away from Jaskier as possible, before he catches sight of the voids that have taken over his eyes. Before the fear and anger he’s seen take over so many faces before when he’s looked like this takes over his bard’s as well

Of course, Jaskier won’t have any of that, and his hands (damn how good they feel against his chilled skin) go to cradle his face, so much gentleness in those fingertips that for a moment Geralt doesn’t even registers what’s happening, before he finds himself staring into eyes that manage to shine like the brightest of jewels even in such prevailing darkness. They stay like this for a moment, one of Jaskier’s fingers gently swiping across his jaw, before his hand’s tighten with something Geralt can only describe as the most tender of strength. The words are a hair quieter, but still just as grounding, still so full of devotion, “Pease love, let me help.”

And this goes on for hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of utterances, and Geralt feels like he could hear those three words yet another thousand times and never grew weary of them. And yet, during that same time, he never found himself able to let them pass through his lips as well. Jaskier had thankfully caught on rather quickly that when Geralt shows his affection for others, it’s in the form of actions, of moments of service where words are not necessary for conveying his own language of love. A cloak thrown over shivering shoulders whilst their camping, sewing up a rip on a favorite shirt, carefully setting aside feathers from a grouse he’s killed that might make for good pens. And it works.

Well, up until that damn mountain, of course.

And once the weeks roll over into a solid month after he let those poisoned words drip from his mouth, after he found a familiar cloak bundled back up neatly in Roach’s saddlebag, one he remembers gently laying over his bard before they made their way into the dragon’s cave, that he realizes he may never hear those three words again, said in a thousand different ways but always coming back to the same message. And for the first time in a long while, he feels like that little boy being left on the steps of Kaer Morhen, utterly alone.

Of course, destiny has always been more than ready to throw a wrench right into Geralt’s path. But for once, a wrench that would have taken his life apart might just be the very thing that helps put it back together again. Because now, nine months after he descended back down that damn mountain by himself, and one month after Ciri’s begun her magical tutelage under Yennefer’s watchful eyes, as he passes by the tavern of yet another nondescript village, he’s caught the scent of something that even after all their years together and all this time apart, still manages to stop Geralt dead in his tracks.

Jaskier’s blood.

It smells fresh, the faintness of it seemingly due to the quantity over its age, as now that he shacks his head clear of the initial sense of dread he can just barely hears the sounds of a squabble on the other side of the building. He’s not sure what to expect, from the sound of shuffling boots it seems there can’t be more than four people involved, so he makes the call to stick to the shadows as he enters a nearby alleyway and keep his hand hovering over the dagger strapped to his leg, as opposed to the swords strapped to his back. Thankfully there’s no debris to give his position away, and once he reaches the other side as he peers around the corner to finally get a good look at what’s going on, and his heart nearly jumps out of his throat. 

It’s Jaskier alright, and thank the Gods, aside from the bruise that’s already blossoming over his left eye he still seems to be in good shape, his lute case flung a safe distance away from the fray and his steel dagger gripped tightly in his right hand. There’s one man on the ground already, though from the rise of chest he appears to only be knocked out, but the other two seem to be gaining ground fast despite the cuts littering their arms and faces, and it only takes watching one slam his fist hard into Jaskier’s gut, hearing the barley-suppressed sound of pain that tumbles out of Jaskier’s mouth, before Geralt starts to see red, his own dagger now in hand. 

He steps forward out of the shadows, the growl that rips out throat faster than he can help it stopping the would-be attackers in their tracks as they turn their attention towards Geralt. For a moment everything’s still, and Geralt wonders if he’ll have to make the first move and Jaskier begins to slump forwards from where one of the brutes is now gripping the front of his doublet. 

But it seems these fools actually have a bit of brain to them, as the eyes of the taller of the two go from being filled with anger and confusion to fear and dread as he takes in the Witcher standing before him, that particular smell of curdled milk pouring spiking off of him, and he yanks the shoulder of his companion back so far that the other is forced to let go of Jaskier entirely, who moves back to lean against the wall tavern wall for support. 

To be honest, Geralt’s almost grateful as he watches the attackers drag their fallen comrade back into the building and scream to someone for a key as they slam the door shut. A fight would’ve been nice to get rid of the excess adrenaline buzzing through his limbs, but as his eyes turn back towards Jaskier’s now slumped over form, he knows there’s far more important things to take care of right now.

But as he makes his way over to kneel in front of his former companion, Geralt feels his mouth and mind freeze. Nine months, nine months’ worth of searching, and he still doesn’t know how to properly convey just how sorry he is for this entire situation that he’s put his friend, fuck, his lover, through the one time he decided to open his damn mouth.

And yet, as those cornflower eyes slowly rise to meet his own, flashing back and forth between hurt and anger, fear and dread, Geralt can still smell it beneath the ever-present scents of resin and chamomile, the earthy, new-grass smell of hope.

So Geralt decides fuck it, reaches into his back pocket to draw out a handkerchief, eyes focusing on the bit of blood that starting to dribble out of Jaskier’s nose, before turning them back to bright blue ones that are staring them done, and he finally lets it out,

“Let me help?”

For a moment there’s nothing, and then, the briefest of light flashes through those beautiful blue eyes, just the barest of nods as Jaskier moves to sit himself up straighter, Geralt other arm reaching out as support, and Geralt has never been more grateful to have those three simple words in his life, and the one who brought them forth in the first place, back in his life.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for taking the time to read this, every view is extremely appreciated!! And please, feel free to check me out over on tumblr @rosedropper, for mainly Star Trek and The Witcher(Netflix) content right now!!


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